


Patient, Careful, Mine

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Dubious Consent, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Sansa had just removed her earring when he appeared behind her in the mirror; his suit jacket had been discarded, tie long gone, collar removed. His shirt was open at the top as he unabashedly leered at her, hands languid in his pockets. She would have withered under his prowling gaze at one time — a dangerous, notorious gangster known to hold a grudge.Not anymore.





	Patient, Careful, Mine

**Author's Note:**

> So life has been shit lately, and I haven't really felt up to writing, but this little ditty popped in my head tonight, so have at it.

Sansa had just removed her earring when he appeared behind her in the mirror; his suit jacket had been discarded, tie long gone, collar removed. His shirt was open at the top as he unabashedly leered at her, hands languid in his pockets. She would have withered under his prowling gaze at one time — a dangerous, notorious gangster known to hold a grudge. 

Not anymore. 

Her days of teenage meekness dwindled within months of taking refuge beneath his roof. A necessity. 

“You did well tonight.” 

She unclasped the earring’s mate. “I know.” 

She'd been living under Littlefinger's protection since her family’s murder three years ago. She was only fifteen at the time, but she wasn't blind to his preference for her. In truth, she was surprised that he hadn't taken his prize, claimed her the first night. But she’d come to learn quickly that Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish was the most patient of men. Why take what will willingly be offered eventually? 

On soft soles, he stepped up to her as she carefully placed the diamond studs into her jewelry box. He’d never once entered her private domain in all their time together. That he did so now spoke volumes to his intent this evening, and her stomach clenched, flipped as she laid a steadying hand to the dressing table. 

The heat from him penetrated the beglittered satin at her back, and she suppressed a shiver when at last he made contact. Closed her eyes as he trailed his knuckle lightly along the seam of her zipper, the palm of his opposite hand settling at the curve of her waist. Sansa had wondered just this morning when Littlefinger would expect payment on his investment. It appeared that tonight, he intended to collect. 

The words brushed against her ear. “Your mother would be proud.”

“She’d be proud of her daughter, the liar?” 

“If the lies keep you alive… Yes.” His hand flexed over her hip. A kiss burned into the top of her shoulder as he swept her hair away. “You remind me of her sometimes.”

 _I know_. 

The resemblance rankled Sansa in these moments. These moments when she was hot and flushed under his attention, awaiting his next move; never quite certain whether she hated it or relished it. Catelyn Tully was the one who got away, and now Petyr is left with only her doppleganger — a sad consolation prize. 

She was angry that he would even reference the woman long dead and buried at a time like this. “I'm not my mother.”

Littlefinger met her vehement gaze in the mirror. The green of his eyes was vibrant, glowing, hungry, and a small part of her wondered if this wasn't just the reaction he wanted. 

“No,” he affirmed before twisting her about, and snaking a hand in her hair. “You are so much more.”

Lips — hard and unyielding — took. Teeth bit. Tongues chased. Sansa was torn. This was both familiar and new. From day one, Littlefinger pressed his hand, his ownership, over her knowing that she couldn't refuse him. A kiss to her fingers, her cheek, her temple; a touch to her arm, her shoulder, the small of her back. But he never pushed for more. Careful, _careful_ was Littlefinger. 

The feel of his mouth on hers was known, but the mint that seemed to eternally reside on his breath was now sharp on her tongue. His hands that lingered softly in their caress, now seared. His wiry arms pulled her taut, moulding their forms into one as he partook, and she partook; moans erupted between them, origin unknown. His underlying lust, his sinful depravity was finally, finally revealed. That dark, seedy desire flowing through the ministrations of his tongue, his fingertips, the heady motion of his hips as he pressed and pressed and pressed until she was dizzy. 

Sansa barely registered the drag of her feet across the bedroom, nor the sleek removal of her beaded gown as it slinked down her frame to pool in the floor. It wasn't until the cool sheets touched the overheated skin of her back that she came to with a gasp, and found the man hovering above her, naked as she and drowning just as deep. 

He nuzzled into her, his nose grazing her cheek as the hard length of his cock slicked between her legs, striking a chord that made them both groan. If there were any sense left to her, she would stop this, push him away. He would let her. She knew he would bend. The intractable Littlefinger only had one true weakness — _her_. 

A truth which she tested time and again over the years. A game she’d play to see how much control she held over the man that controlled everything. The bodies piled up — Joffrey, Harry, the poor bodyguard whose name she’d never even had the time to learn before his throat was slit — all dead because she dared to entertain their suit. 

His voice filtered through the haze, low and grating. “Tell me you want this.”

It was not a question. “I want this.” And at the feel of his nails digging into her thigh as he hoisted it up to wrap around his waist, “I want you.” 

The breathless words must have satisfied the insatiable as he captured her lips soon after. The pressure of his cock, firm and steady, found her entrance. One forceful thrust and she broke, her body revolting against the intrusion even as he moaned his pleasure at being encompassed within her. Sansa hid her tears in his shoulder, fought to hold the whimpers in the back of her throat. 

She was a virgin. He knew this, of course, but gave no sign, no acknowledgment of what he took, of what she willingly gave. Only buried his lips at her neck, peppering damp kisses to her skin as he moved — slow, precise, fluid motions meant to soothe, to incite. It wasn't long at all before Sansa's body began to open to him and pleasure began to bloom, overcoming the initial shock. 

Her back arched. His name tumbling out on a sigh as she started to meet him. Their movements synchronous as the waves along the shore. Building, building, building until they were a frantic storm, pitched high and perilous, battering the banks beyond reason. 

Petyr trembled in her arms, his back sweat-slicked, eyes wild and verdant as he watched every sensation play over her face, watched as it became too much, too too much. Her lids slammed shut, unable to process the unraveling of her own body beneath the beating of his hips. Crying out when he guided her hand between them, giving her control over her own release. 

Blindingly, it washed over her. Her legs shook, arms shook, her body coiled tightly around him as he continued to ram into her deepest recesses until his own body stuttered and tensed. A growl of profound bliss in the shape of her name uttered against her red, red hair as he emptied himself into her, utterly and completely. 

When Petyr withdrew from her and her skin began to cool, Sansa had the thought that she should feel different. Yet, despite her previous inexperience, she hadn't been an innocent for years. The blood on her thighs no different than that on her hands. Life despoiled her years ago. Instead, she felt relaxed. Sated in a way that her own fingers had never managed. 

Petyr was still breathing heavily next to her when she turned on her side to fetch a cigarette. As the match rasped and the flame ignited the tip, his hands came about her waist, his body nesting into her with a kiss to her nape. 

“You're my girl, now,” he declared, lifting the fag from between her long fingers to take a drag. 

Sansa exhaled a smooth line of smoke as she rolled onto her back, allowing him to cage her; his leg situating itself between her own as he leaned into her. Reluctant to reply, her inquisitive blue eyes and polished fingers glanced along the pale scar bisecting his chest before looking up into the shadows that formed his face. Seeing the hard set of his mouth, she understood that any verbal response would be inconsequential; a folly to believe there had ever been a choice. They would have always ended up here, one way or another. She reclaimed her cigarette and then his mouth once more, with more tenderness than she truly felt. 

There were far worse positions than being a gangster’s moll.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a tiny continuation of this dynamic that I wrote for a prompt. Those interested can find it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821197/chapters/34403261)


End file.
